Whitney purses her fuchsia-painted lips, giving Hael a side-eye as he smokes a cigarette in her living room, but she gets to work, inserting an IV into Aaron's arm. The bullet is still inside of him; what if it’s lodged next to an artery or something? What if Whitney’s right, and we really do need a surgeon to get it out?
Minute by minute, Bernadette. Take it minute by minute.
Hael takes a seat on the coffee table while I stand near the foot of the couch, watching as Whitney does her thing, removing Victor’s careful stitches and digging into the wound with what I can only hope are a clean pair of household tweezers. This is so wrong, so wrong on so many levels. I turn away, but only for a minute. I can’t let that bitch work on my ex without at least keeping an eye on him.
Even though it turns my stomach to see Aaron opened back up, I glance over and watch Whitney remove the small piece of metal from his bicep. With a frown on her face, she drops it into my empty orange juice cup.
“He could very well have internal damage in his arm that we don’t know about,” she murmurs, but she keeps working until the wound is closed and bandaged.
While we wait, we watch Aaron go through two pints of blood. He eats up everything Hael brought and looks like he could use a little more.
I feel like I'm imagining it, but his face seems a little less pale, his cheeks a bit pinker. I touch my fingers to the wound on my own arm, but I don’t want Whitney distracted with my injuries when she needs to be keeping an eye on Aaron. My face is going to scar, I think, but I push the thought back. It isn’t important, not right now anyway.
Although when I next have a dark moment alone with Billie Charter, I’m going to kill her.
Make no mistake about that.
After a while, I end up curled on the couch beside Aaron, my head resting against his chest, just so I can make sure his heart is still beating, that he’s still breathing. That he’s still around for me to hate. Part of me wonders what I’d do if I lost him now, how I’d react. For someone I supposedly despise, I sure have a lot of feelings on the matter.
When Vic appears several hours later, he pauses in the living room and gives his friend an assessing look.
“What are his chances?” he demands, and it's quite clear that he's addressing Nurse Yes-Scott and not us.
“He seems stable enough,” she says, checking Aaron’s blood pressure for the umpteenth time. “He's going to need time to heal, and he'll scar, but—”
“I don't give a shit about scarring. Will he live?” Vic demands, lighting up a cigarette of his own and making Whitney frown dramatically.
“He'll live. As far as gunshot wounds go, it isn't overly serious. Likely, his poor condition is a result of pushing too hard and refusing to seek medical treatment right away. But I really should insist that you have him see a doctor—”
“I don't give a fuck what you insist,” Vic says, moving over to stand beside her. The look on her face is priceless. Two parts fear and one part, sickening, disgusting lust. Guess she likes ‘em young, same as Principal Vaughn. They deserve to share a coffin together, preferably sometime soon. If only the devil worked on karma. Too bad nothing about life is fair. “Hael, Cal, load Aaron up and let's go.”
“What am I supposed to do about all of this blood?” Whitney whines as Hael and Cal gingerly lift their friend between them, carrying him to the door. I move ahead of them, opening it wide, and pausing just briefly before following them out, so I can hear Victor's answer.
“You’re going to clean it up,” he says, crouching low next to Nurse Yes-Scott and putting his lips near her ear. “And then you’re going to erase this night from your memory. If you choose to do anything outside of that plan, I’ll send the most depraved men I know to pay you a little visit.” Vic stands up, staring down at Whitney’s wide eyes and quivering form with zero empathy. Her face is paler than Aaron's was when we first got here. “Oh, and if you see Vaughn around, you tell him to fuck off. If I find out you’re entertaining him …” Victor just shakes his head, but he doesn’t need to say anything else. It’s quite clear from Whitney’s expression that his message was heard loud and clear.
Turning away, I head down the steps and open the sliding door to the minivan.
The sky is beginning to warm with color from the rising sun, a cheeky blush that annoys the shit out of me. How dare the day be threatening to start when the night seems so endless and bleak? That endlessness, it suits the situation. A gentle pink blush does not.
“Hey.” Vic grabs my chin, but I tear my face away from him, turning away to stare down the street, at a perfect row of suburban houses lined up like toys, dollhouses for people crafted of plastic dreams. I don't belong anywhere near here, not by a long shot. Aaron's dream of seeing me reach for the stars, like some sort of bullshit poster on the wall of an elementary school classroom, it was never going to happen for me. Even if I didn't have Heather to worry about. Even if I didn't drink darkness and sip pain. “He'll be okay, Bernie.”
“Yeah, but that doesn't mean we didn't kill a kid tonight,” I say, turning back to look at Vic. He just stands there, a mountain of muscle and immorality, and smiles tightly at me.
“What happens on All Hallows’ Eve, stays on All Hallows' Eve. Don't bring it up again.” He starts to move past me, but then grabs my face and presses a scalding kiss to my lips that has me thinking all sorts of depraved thoughts that don't belong in the middle of a crisis, thoughts that pertain to naked flesh and hungry mouths and roving hands. “That's not a request.”
Vic lets go of me and slips into the driver's side of the van. I hesitate only briefly before climbing in to join him.
I don't remember falling asleep, but I'm just grateful that I wake up with zero nightmares. All I can figure is that I was just too fucking tired to have them. When I crack my lids, I find Aaron staring back at me, sitting propped up in the king bed in his parents' old bedroom. Vic is on my other side, his breathing deep enough that I can tell he's still asleep.
“You're awake,” Aaron says softly, and I cock a brow, pushing myself up into a sitting position.
“Shouldn't I be the one saying that?” I reply, pushing white-blonde hair over my shoulder. The pink at the ends is starting to fade; time to re-dye it. I wonder if I should choose another color? But no, Penelope's favorite color was pink. I wet my lips and scoot a bit closer to Aaron, until our shoulders are so close that one deep breath would press our bare skin together. “How are you feeling?”
Aaron scoffs a laugh and shakes his head, cringing a bit as he reaches up a hand to press against the bandage on his left shoulder.
“Like I got run over by a fucking truck,” he says, cocking a smile that reminds me of the ones we used to share on bright, sunshine-y days, back when life didn't feel quite so … desperate. That's the only way I can think to describe the way I feel right now, desperate.
The Thing was here last night. Kali was here. Principal Vaughn was here.
Callum killed Danny Ensbrook.
Shit.
You're not in this alone, I remind myself, looking up and catching Aaron's green-gold gaze. Havoc Girl. Not Havoc’s girl. We might be in hell, but we're burning together.
“I thought you might die last night,” I whisper, without even meaning to. Emotion catches in my throat, surprising me. With Vic on one side, and Aaron on the other … the numbness inside of me feels like it's been shattered, like I'm being cut apart with every thought, every feeling. I'm bleeding profusely, and I don't know how to stop it. Unlike with Aaron's wound, there are no transfusions for the emotionally repressed, no IV doses of happiness or clarity or mental wellness.
“Yeah?” Aaron asks, shirtless and covered in tattoos, beautiful and broken. I want to reach out and touch him, but I don't dare. There might only be inches between us physically, but emotionally, there are miles. “And how did you feel about that?”
I snort and shake my head.
“Don't ask stupid questions, Aaron Fadler. They don't suit you.�
� We both pause as a soft, little knock sounds at the door.
“Bernie?” Heather calls out. “We're hungry, and there's cereal but no milk.”
Aaron and I exchange a look, and he grins.
My heart stutters in my chest and I know I'm balancing on a dangerous precipice here, one where I forgive Aaron for the things he did to me, where I find myself slipping into a routine as warm and familiar as any I've ever had in my life. Aaron and I were good together, but we were kids. Maybe we're still kids, but things are different now. I'm not sure how safe or smart it is to let my heart believe we can ever recapture the past.
“I wouldn't mind something to eat, if you're up for having food delivered.” He glances down at his phone, twisting his mouth to the side in a sardonic smile. “It's nearly five o'clock anyway, so pizza seems appropriate.”
“Five o'clock?” I choke out, pushing up to my feet and heading for the door. I'm no longer wearing my bloodstained clothes from last night, just an old t-shirt I stole from Aaron's dresser. The smell of it—like sandalwood and rose, like Aaron himself—lulled me to sleep last night. Underneath, I’m not wearing shit, but luckily the shirt is long enough to cover me. We're all about casual here, in fucking Havoc House. “Hey,” I say as I open the door to find my sister, along with Aaron's sister Kara and cousin Ashley. “Sorry we slept so late. We … had a long night.” I clench my jaw against the stark reality of that statement.
It’s Friday today, a school day, but only technically speaking. Prescott High would’ve been a ghost town. Nobody in the southside goes to class the day after Halloween, regardless of what day of the week it is. I do feel kind of shitty about not taking the girls though.
“We don't care,” Heather says, peering past me to see both Aaron and Vic in the bed. How weird is that, that we all slept in there together? A tingle passes through me, and I have to wrap my arms around myself to keep it contained. It feels like a sparkle, and I don't like sparkles. They're nothing but bullshit covered in glitter. “We played video games with Hael and ate chips and Twinkies. Ashley puked on Hael's jeans.” She points back at Kara's younger cousin, and the little girl hides behind Kara like she has something to be ashamed of.
I just roll my eyes and run my fingers through my hair.
“Anyone would throw up after a night of candy and a day of junk food.” I glance back at Aaron, sitting in bed with a bandage on his arm, his muscles those of a man, his boy’s body shed along with his old life. What was I thinking? He hasn't been a kid for a long time, and neither have I. “I'll cook something. I just need someone to take me to the store.”
“You'll make tacos?” Heather asks, clasping her hands together in a prayer position. The golden highlights in her light brown hair remind me of Penelope. So much so that I find that I suddenly can't breathe. Shit, fuck, bitch. This is all Vic's fault. And Aaron's, how dare he almost die on me. That's so not freaking fair for him to do that, to trick me into thinking I might lose him so that my walls could come tumbling down. And Callum? He just risked life in prison to save me.
Screw these Havoc Boys, and everything they stand for.
If I were smart, I'd just take Heather and run.
Instead, my blood is thick with vengeance, and the more the boys push, the more of my emotional walls they knock down, the harder I want to fight. The more I hurt. For myself, for Penelope. Like a caged cat, my claws are out.
“Oscar can take you in the van,” Vic murmurs, surprising me. I glance back, but his crow-black eyes are still closed. I'd have known if they were open and boring into me; I'd have felt them.
“Fan-flipping-tastic,” I growl, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind me. As soon as I do, I feel a brief moment of respite. Victor is a lot; Aaron and I have baggage. I just need a minute.
“Shall I make a list?” Oscar asks, looking up from his iPad to stare at me through perfectly clean lenses. I've never seen them with a smudge or a speck; they're almost too clean. He's practically inhuman. “I don't like to dawdle in supermarkets, especially when we're in the middle of a turf war.”
“I'm not exactly the list-making type,” I quip back, giving him a look. He stares right back at me, cutting through me with a slate-gray stare, and then lets his attention dip to my thighs. The shirt is just barely long enough to cover my crotch, leaving little to the imagination.
“Well, then, I suppose I'll make the list while you find something appropriate to wear.”
“How's this for appropriate?” I snap back, lifting the front of the shirt and flashing him tits and bush, all in one go. The girls have wandered out the back door to the yard, so they don’t see it happen, but Oscar most certainly does. An unreadable expression crosses his face before he goes right back to making a list on his iPad, seemingly unaffected by my naked body. Psycho. I drop the shirt back into place and grab the booty shorts I wore beneath my cheerleading skirt last night. I yank them on, twist my hair up into a messy bun, and use the hair-tie on my wrist to keep it in place. “Let's go.” Slipping my feet into my combat boots (the tennis-shoes are covered in blood and should probably be burned), I head for the front door, exhaling sharply as soon as I step out into the wet, cold November morning.
November.
Just last night, there was a harvest moon, a Halloween party … and a murder.
Speaking of, as I close the door behind me and rest my back against it, gathering a bit of peace for myself, I see Callum on the edge of the sidewalk, the hood of his navy-blue sweatshirt over his head, the sleeves torn at the shoulders, his muscular arms and scars on vivid display.
“Hey,” I start, moving across the wet grass to stand beside him. The cold dew seeps through the laces on my boots, chilling me to the bone, but I ignore it, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off the frigid air. My breath escapes in tiny, white clouds as I pause next to Callum, our shoulders pressed as close as I was with Aaron just a few minutes prior.
But between Callum and me, there's a hell of a lot less baggage.
I scoot a bit closer, so that we're touching.
“Good morning,” he says, giving me one of those cryptic smiles of his. The look in his blue eyes is telling, a somber sort of acceptance. “Sometimes pain is pretty, to the people who have too much of it.” Callum Park has already accepted that his life will never be what he wanted, that he will never achieve his dreams. He's come to the realization that some of us just exist in nightmares. “Taking off so soon?”
A shudder comes over me at the thought of returning to my mother's house, of sleeping under the same roof as the Thing. I'm not sure that I can do it, muster up that level of courage just about now.
“Not really. More like, I can't feed the girls junk food for dinner, not after a day of eating chips and cake.” My mouth twitches into a bit of a smile as I remember playing with Penelope, running around the house dressed in Mom's fancy dresses and laughing, stuffing our faces with snacks. When Pamela came home and saw what we were doing, she cracked Pen across the cheek so hard that her face swelled up for almost two weeks. Mom told the school she'd been stung by a bee, that she was allergic. “We're going to the store for supplies.”
My smile disappears as quick as it came.
“Well,” Cal starts, giving that husky laugh of his as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his hoodie pocket. “If you need something to do today, stop by the studio.” He lights up, the orange glow from the lighter pushing away the shadows in his face, warming up the darkness inside his hoodie. Beneath all the scars and the bullshit, Callum looks tired and stretched thin.
Nothing I'd ever thought I'd see from a Havoc Boy.
“Yeah?” I quip as the front door opens and we both glance back to see Oscar stepping outside, the gray glare of the sky cutting the lenses of his glasses in half. I can't see his eyes, and I don't like that. There's no telling what he might do if he isn't watched. And if he thinks I've forgotten what he said to me last night—You know I can’t stand you; go bother somebody else—then he's got ano
ther thing coming.
“I'm teaching a beginners' class, for adults,” Cal finishes, reaching up to push blond hair away from his forehead. He gives me a tight smile and a wink before taking off down the sidewalk, hauling his black duffel bag up his shoulder.
I wait until he disappears around the corner before I turn and head up the driveway, pausing as I see Oscar inside of Hael's Camaro instead of the minivan.
“Pretty sure Vic didn't stutter when he said the van,” I murmur, sick and tired of Oscar's crap. This morning, I am precisely out of fucks to give. I climb in as Oscar tilts the edge of his sharp mouth up into a smile, turning the key and warming the engine up to a gentle purr. When I'm sitting in here, I feel like I can figure out where Hael's coming from. I know who he is. Saucy little playboy with a heart of gold, a love for cars and kids, and … an ex who could be dangerous to us in so many ways.
I slide my hands over my face again as Oscar reverses down the driveway, pausing at the next stop sign to select a song from his phone. Homicide by Logic and Eminem starts to play, and I frown hard.
Maybe I only think I know Hael Harbin? Shit, maybe I don't know any of them?
I haven't forgotten what I overheard at the party.
The boys castrated Donald. They carved the word Rapist into his forehead.
What the actual fuck are they going to do to the Thing?
I also haven’t forgotten what I heard after the party.
“We have a video, of him with your sister.”
But I need time to process that, along with everything else. Some part of me wonders if I’m suffering from some sort of emotional shock.
“I want to talk about the next name on my list,” I start, and Oscar laughs. It isn't a pretty sound. No, actually, it sends chills down my spine. I flick my gaze his direction, trying to align the boy who made a paper princess dress for me in elementary school to the whip-smart gangbanger sitting beside me. There's no correlating the two.
“Of course you do, Bernadette. We can't let such an important matter slip through the cracks. Perhaps we should talk about you flashing me first?”
Chaos at Prescott High Page 4